I started toward her with the intention of slapping her silly, but Bernie grabbed me by one arm and stopped me. “Which onr of us is most qualified a... her job isn't the issue here,” she said. “Which one of us was bent over the bosses' desk getting her brains fucked out is what we're discussing here, and the question is, what are we going to do about it.” I sighed. I knew that she had won. Whatever she wanted I would have to do. All I wanted was her to promise not to tell anyone, not to gossip. Her son Kenny, at the foot of the stairway, hadn’t seen me coming from the bathroom. I watched for a minute as he tossed coats aside and rummaged through the women’s purses. I saw him pick up a brown purse. It was my purse. He opened the wallet and hesitated. He looked carefully at a picture, caressed it with the tip of his index finger. He saw himself, and he saw me. He saw what we looked like at age seventeen: he with dark brown hair, nearly black, cut in the popular bowl cut of the. More

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